The comma that will not close
Twelve fifths and seven octaves, which are not the same thing
Stack twelve perfect fifths and the note that arrives should be the one seven octaves up. It is sharp by about a quarter of a semitone, and the whole history of tuning is a set of decisions about what to do with that.
Where to hide the comma, which is the only real question
Four tuning systems, four different places to put an error that cannot be removed. Each one is coherent, each was standard somewhere, and the choice between them decided what music could be written.
The wolf at the end of the chain
Put all the tuning error into one interval and eleven others become perfect. The twelfth becomes a howl, and for two centuries keyboards were built that way on purpose.
A second comma, arriving by a different road
Four pure fifths ought to land on a pure major third, two octaves up. They miss by 21.5 cents — a different gap from the one twelve fifths leave, produced by a different route, and the two are not the same size.
Keys that had characters, and could be measured
Eighteenth-century writers described E flat major as devotional and F sharp major as harsh, and modern readers file it under synaesthesia. On the instruments those writers used, the difference between the two keys was seventeen cents of third, and that is a quantity.
Nineteen, thirty-one and fifty-three
Divide the octave into a different number of equal parts and different problems disappear. Which ones vanish is not a matter of taste — it can be computed from the prime factors of the intervals, and each division makes a different decision.
Beats are arithmetic that anybody can hear
Two tones a few hertz apart swell and fade at exactly their difference. It is the most direct evidence available that the ear does sums on what reaches it, and it is how every instrument in the world gets tuned.
Keys are neighbours, and the map is computed
Two keys a fifth apart share six of their seven notes. That single fact generates the circle of fifths, the key signatures, the shape of nearly every modulation, and the sense that some keys are far away.
A progression is a path, and the map can be drawn
Chords in a key are not a list. They sit at measurable distances from home, and a progression is a walk across that space — which explains why some sequences feel like journeys and others like wandering.
The progression that never comes home
Just intonation is usually said to fail because a keyboard has only twelve keys. That is not the reason. Take one of the commonest chord sequences in tonal music, play every chord in exact whole-number ratios, and it arrives back on its starting chord a syntonic comma flat — on any instrument, including a voice.
How small a difference is audible
Every essay here about tuning has assumed a listener who can hear the difference between two systems. The assumption has a number: about five cents in the middle of the range. It clears the two commas fourfold and it does not clear the schisma at all, which sorts the whole subject of tuning into the part that is about music and the part that is about arithmetic.
The chord is still major, and that is why temperament works
A major third can be seventeen cents wrong and still be a major third. That tolerance is not a failure of hearing — it is the reason the whole subject of tuning is a discussion rather than a catastrophe. Every temperament ever proposed moves intervals around inside their categories, and the one thing none of them may do is push one across a boundary.
A guitar cannot be in tune
Three errors land on the same instrument — equal temperament's own thirds, the sharpening that comes from pressing a string down to a fret, and the fact that the only correction available is one length per string. Searching over every setting a luthier could choose leaves a worst-case error of about fifteen cents, and most of what is left is the temperament, which no saddle can reach.
A fraction of a comma
The tuning systems of three centuries are usually presented as rival schemes with names and dates. They are points on a line. Narrow every fifth by the same fraction of a comma and both errors that matter are linear in that fraction — and the system named as the break with the tradition turns out to be a member of it, at one part in eleven.
What a temperament cannot do
Add up the twelve major thirds of any keyboard tuning whose chain of fifths closes and the answer is 4,800 cents. Every time, in every system, before a single fifth has been chosen. So no temperament has ever made the average third less wrong than any other one, and four hundred years of argument were about a distribution rather than about accuracy.
Somebody has to pay the comma
A choir has no frets and no keys, so it can tune every chord exactly — and a common progression sung that way arrives a comma flat, every circuit. The freedom a keyboard lacks turns out to be a freedom about where the error goes rather than whether there is one, and the two costs always add to the same number.
A comma under the threshold
Eight pure fifths taken downwards arrive at a major third 1.95 cents flat of a perfect 5:4. That gap has a name and a history, and it is the only one in the subject nobody has ever had to hide — it is under the smallest difference a listener can detect, which makes a chain of untempered fifths a source of almost-just thirds and makes one eighteenth-century tuning nearly free.
Where the chain was never closed
Eleven earlier essays treat the comma as a fact about music. It is a fact about three requirements — that the scale is built from fifths, that the octave stays pure, and that the chain closes so any degree can be a tonic — and most of the world's tuning traditions decline at least one of them. What they pay instead is computable, and it is paid somewhere else entirely.
A comma is a polyrhythm that never closes
Seven earlier essays have rested on a common grid. Two cycles have one when their ratio is a ratio of whole numbers, and the fifth against the octave is not — provably, from unique factorisation. So there is no grid, no composite and no least common multiple, and what is left over instead is the sequence 2, 5, 12, 41, 53 with a comma attached to each.
The only sizes a fifth will make
Stack pure fifths and fold them into an octave, and at almost every number of notes the result has three or more different step sizes. At 2, 3, 5, 7, 12, 17 and 29 it has exactly two — and at no other size below thirty. The pentatonic and the diatonic set are not two discoveries. They are neighbours in one series, and it is the comma's series.
A note that is never at its pitch
Eleven essays in this field argue about differences of one to twenty-four cents. An ordinary operatic vibrato is a hundred and forty cents wide and completes six excursions a second, so every one of those distinctions fits inside a single sung note several times over — and the beat rate a tuner would null passes through zero eleven times a second.
A wind instrument is a thermometer
Pitch goes as the square root of absolute temperature, so a warming clarinet sharpens by about three cents a degree and passes a Pythagorean comma after eight. The strings beside it go flat as they warm. Nobody chose either number, no temperament addresses either of them, and together they are twice the size of the discrepancy this whole field is named after.
The note that is sharp because of where it goes
Eleven essays here have tuned notes against other notes sounding at the same time. A melodic line makes the opposite demand of the same note. In C major the leading note wants to be 1088 cents if the argument is vertical — a pure third above the dominant — and 1110 if it is horizontal, because a leading note is a note that is about to arrive somewhere and performers narrow the step. The two answers differ by 21.5 cents, which is a syntonic comma exactly, and no keyboard has ever been able to hold both.
The same distance, under two names
Four hundred cents is a major third or a diminished fourth, and on a keyboard nothing in the sound distinguishes them. An earlier essay was about the boundary between two categories; this is about two categories at one acoustic value, and the surprise is where the ambiguity comes from. In quarter-comma meantone a major third is 386 cents and a diminished fourth is 427 — two names, two pitches, forty-one cents apart. Equal temperament collapsed them, and what a listener now supplies from context used to be in the sound.
Two names for one key
A keyboard has one key between G and A and the page has two names for it. That looks like redundancy and it is not: the two names are twelve fifths apart on a chain, and in every tuning anybody played before the nineteenth century they are two different pitches. The size of the difference is twelve fifths against seven octaves and nothing else — twenty-three cents one way in Pythagorean, forty-one the other way in meantone, and zero at exactly one point in between.
A section against another section
The choir has been treated as a unison, and no choir sings only unisons. Two sections an interval apart beat between partials rather than between fundamentals — the third brings the fifth partial of one against the fourth of the other — and equal temperament puts that coincidence fourteen cents out. So two sections singing a tempered third beat at nearly nine per second with every singer in both of them perfectly in tune, and the same temperament is inaudible on a fifth.
Sixteen sweeps against sixteen
Every intonation figure about the voice treats a singer as a frequency. A singer is a frequency being swept a hundred cents wide six times a second, and two sections singing an interval are two hundred and fifty-six pairs of sweeps. The beat rate between the partials the interval brings together stops being a number and becomes a function of time — and the pair spends four fifths of its time above the rate at which beating is beating at all.
A consensus with nothing to hold it
Once the oboe has stopped, no reference is left in the room. Each player corrects toward what they hear around them, which is other players correcting toward them — and a consensus dynamic has a fixed point at every common value, so it pulls the ensemble together and nothing pulls it anywhere in particular. Simulated, the players' spread falls from 2.8 cents to 0.5 while the ensemble as a whole random-walks. The size is the result and it is small: two or three cents over a movement, which is a tenth of what unaccompanied choirs are said to lose.
The tuning a string quartet cannot change
A string quartet can put every stopped note wherever it likes, and it has five pitches it cannot move once the pegs are turned: the open strings C, G, D, A and E, tuned in pure fifths from the A it was given. That makes its only fixed tuning a five-key Pythagorean keyboard — the cello's C nearly six cents below a piano's, and every third two open strings can make a syntonic comma from just. Counted key by key, the clash is worst in G, C and F, the keys that use every open string, and absent from A and E.
The cello cannot hear its own tempering
Narrowing a quartet's fifths to meet a piano is one number, 1.96 cents a fifth, and it is a different beat on every string: once every two thirds of a second on the violin's A–E and once every four and a half seconds on the cello's C–G. Set by ear for two seconds a fifth, the violin's E lands within two thirds of a cent and the cello's C within 5.7 — which is as large as the Pythagorean error the tempering was meant to remove. The string whose tuning is most wrong is the string whose tuning is least certain, and a cellist tuning down the chain cannot tell pure from tempered.
An open string pulls the quartet flat
Once the tuning note has stopped, a quartet corrects toward itself and nothing holds its pitch. But four of its pitches do not move: the open strings, on a Pythagorean chain from C 5.9 cents flat to E 2.0 sharp, each ringing when a stopped note shares its pitch class. Give that sympathy a weight of a hundredth of a correction and it beats the random walk within a movement. The quartet settles flat in every major key — by 0.9 cents in E, 2.5 in C and 2.6 in A♭ — and in A♭ major the cellist's tuning scatter moves the whole ensemble by 1.7 cents.
A guitar tuned by harmonics hides a comma
A quartet's stopped notes go wherever its players put them, so its open strings can sit on a pure chain. A guitar's stopped notes are fixed by frets that are already an equal temperament, and its six open strings — four fourths and a third — close two octaves exactly a syntonic comma short when tuned pure, since (4/3)⁴·(5/4) is 4 × 80/81. Tuning by harmonics decides where the comma goes, not whether: a pure third puts it in the octaves of an open E major chord, 17.6 cents narrow; a B from the low E's twelfth puts it in the G–B third, 21.5 cents wide.
One tuning has no comma to place
Standard guitar tuning is four fourths and a third, and tuned pure it closes two octaves exactly a syntonic comma short — so tuning by ear decides where the comma goes rather than whether. An open tuning replaces the interval list. D A D G A D's fifth, two fourths, a tone and a fourth multiply to exactly four, so its chain closes and there is nothing to place: its six strings sit within four cents of the frets. The open-chord tunings close too, and pay for it with one string fifteen cents flat — which every chord barred straight across inherits exactly, and which is why every such chord is precisely as pure as the open one.
A tuning is right for some chords and wrong for the rest
An earlier essay asked which tuning minimises a piece's total departure from just, and guessed the answer would be a few cents off a named one. Searched over all six strings, two of three pieces get back the tuning they were already in — because their chains close and there is nothing to improve. The third lands on a tuning nobody names, three and nine tenths of a cent better than anything a player would have tried, and it is not a compromise: two of its three chords are exactly just and the third is abandoned by thirteen cents.
Counting beats moves the price of a chord, not the tuning
The search that found a guitar piece's best tuning counted every cent of error alike, and the obvious objection is that a cent of a third beats faster than a cent of an octave. Counted in beats instead, every piece gets exactly the same tuning back. What changes is how much of the piece the abandoned chord has to hold before it is rescued — thirty beats instead of forty-four, arriving in three steps instead of one.
The chord a tuning gives up is a fingering
A guitar piece's best tuning makes two of its chords exactly just and abandons the third by thirteen cents, and no way of counting error — cents, beats, squared cents, or only the beats slow enough to hear — brings the third chord back. Fingered as a barre chord in the shape the other two already use, it comes back completely, and the whole piece is exactly just. The conflict was never between chords. It was between hands.
A tempered third cannot be one sound with its own ghost
The essay before this one fitted one harmonic template to a just third's played partials and the products of those partials together, and it worked at every dynamic. Tempered, it does not work at all — and not by naming a different note. There is no template. The lower note's partials sit exactly on their harmonics, the upper note's are every one fourteen cents out, and the products are twenty-three cents out the other way, a span of thirty-seven cents across a tolerance of thirty. The window is nine cents wide when the third is soft and two when it is loud, so equal temperament's fourteen falls outside it — while the fifth's two cents fall inside. The consonances a temperament leaves nearly alone are exactly the ones that stay single sounds.
Tuned for one shape, a cent is worth five frets
A guitar can be tuned so that one chord shape is exactly just wherever it is moved on the neck, and every other shape is then between twelve and fifteen cents out — worse than on the frets. So a player of such a tuning chooses, chord by chord, between intonation and the distance the hand travels. Searched exactly over every fingering of a I–IV–V ground, the route that keeps every chord in the one shape is the cheapest as soon as a cent of the piece's mean error is worth 4.8 frets of movement. On equal-tempered frets the same route needs a cent to be worth fifty-seven.
Tune a guitar for the shape of its key's open chord
A guitar can be tuned for any of five moveable chord shapes, and a player who then keeps every chord in that shape plays exactly in tune while the hand travels. Which shape should the tuning serve? Searched over seven keys and all five shapes, in every key whose tonic is an open chord the answer is that chord's own shape — C for C, D for D, G for G, A for A, and a tie between the E and A shapes in E. The reason is not the key and not the progression. It is that an open chord needs no barre: its hand sits one or two frets above the nut, and that saving is the whole of the difference.
A tuned guitar has no minor chord in tune
A guitar tuned to make one major chord shape exactly just can play every major chord in tune by moving that shape. It cannot play a minor chord in tune anywhere: every minor shape disagrees with every major shape about some pair of strings by eleven cents or more, and on any of the five tunings the least-bad minor chord — the A minor shape on a guitar tuned for the E shape — is 8.60 cents out, worse than on the frets. Put one minor chord into a I–vi–IV–V ground and the most-in-tune tuning in every key becomes the E shape's, because it is the one that hosts that chord least badly.
A silent string tunes the minor chord
A continuous search over a guitar's six strings, run on a piece with one minor chord in it, never settles between two chord shapes: at any share of the piece, the best tuning is exact for one chord and makes the other pay. But the tunings the earlier essays called exact for a shape were exact only on the strings that shape sounds. The C shape never sounds its low E string, and tuned to the C chord's own E it hosts an E minor chord at 6.26 cents — not the 8.60 that was said to be the best any tuned guitar could do. The pop ground's most in-tune tuning is then the C shape's, in every key, at 1.57 cents.
A guitar tuned for a still hand is tuned for nothing
Tune a guitar for a whole route through a ground rather than for one chord shape — routing, retuning and routing again until neither changes — and the answer depends on how much the player is willing to move. Valuing intonation highly, the best tuning is one major shape with its silent string placed, as before. In the middle it can be exact for a minor shape instead, because the route that keeps the hand near the nut plays its minor chords open. And for a player who will not move at all, the best tuning is exact for no chord whatever: every string within two cents of its fret, beating equal temperament by a few tenths of a cent. It is the compromise the earlier search went looking for, and it lives where nobody looked.
A guitar tuned for a set is tuned for the D shape
Tune a guitar once for an evening of songs in five keys rather than once per song, and the tuning the set wants is not the compromise the single-song search predicted. At the valuation a typical player puts on a cent, it is exact for the D shape — the one fingering every key's route uses for some chord — with that shape's two silent strings placed for the set rather than for any song. Not retuning between songs costs a fifth of a cent. Only a set that mixes two grounds, played by a player who will not move, wants a tuning exact for nothing.
One guitar tuning serves every key, and it is the D shape's
A guitar tuned once for a set of pop songs in five keys is tuned exact for the D shape. The open question was the converse: which songs a given tuning serves, and how many keys a set can span before its best tuning stops being any shape's. Grown one key at a time round the circle of fifths, the set never stops sharing a shape: up to three keys it is the C shape's tuning, and from four keys to all twelve it is the D shape's, with the same offsets to a fifth of a cent. The five-key tuning serves the seven keys outside the set better than the two open keys inside it, and not retuning between songs costs less the more keys the evening spans.
The scale's ii chord borrows the dominant's bass
Heard quietly, the pair D–F of a just C major scale brings the bass of the other D with it — B♭, the bass the 10 : 9 D implies — so the comma is resolved by the listener rather than by the players. Add the A that makes the pair a ii chord and that stops being true. The whole-object fit now hears the chord over G, as the top of a dominant ninth, and it does so because the template prefers simple harmonics to accurate ones; a different bass is heard in each inversion, and at a forte none at all. Only a ii built on the 10 : 9 D has one bass in every voicing and at every dynamic. Played quietly from a fixed scale, I–vi–ii–V–I is heard with the bass line C, F, G, G, C: the ii merged into the chord after it, and the progression home.
Two minor songs retune a guitar set for their dominant
A guitar tuned once for an evening of pop songs in every key is tuned exact for the D shape, because every key's route through the ground passes through it. Add songs that are not that ground and the tuning holds or breaks by a rule nobody would guess. Rock songs on I, ♭VII and IV never move it off the D shape, however many are added: they retune only the two strings the D shape leaves silent. One minor-key song leaves it alone too. Two move it to the C shape's tuning, and the chord they move it for is not one of their minor chords but their one major chord — the dominant, fingered in the C shape. Twelve move it again, to the E-minor shape's.
A guitar set keeps its tuning until the third minor song
Two minor-key songs were found to move a pop set's guitar tuning from the D shape to the C shape. Priced as a vote — what the move costs the twelve ground songs, against what it saves each minor song — two songs do not pay for it and three do. The earlier search had never tried keeping the tuning the set already had. And the key a minor song is in matters only at the nut: ten keys vote alike, and G minor, whose dominant is the open D chord, hardly votes at all.
A guitar set tunes for its minor chords only when nearly half its songs are minor
Add a third candidate to the vote — the tuning that makes the minor songs' own tonic chord exact — and a pop set's guitar passes through three tunings as minor songs are added: the ground's to the second, the dominant's from the third, and the tonic's only from the tenth, when ten songs in twenty-two are minor. Nothing in between is ever chosen: the two minor-song tunings differ on two strings, and every compromise between them costs the ground more than either end. Two keys break the pattern at the nut, and one earlier figure turns out to be wrong by a song.
A stiff string slows the fourths and quickens the fifths
Every rate in a bearing plan is computed from whole-number partials, and a piano string's partials are not whole numbers. The correction is usually summarised as 'every real beat is faster than the table'. It is not: stiffness quickens the beat of every narrow interval and slows the beat of every wide one, and on a small upright the tempered fourth stops beating altogether. Both errors push the same way, so a tuner who counts the printed table leaves every interval wide, and a fifth and a fourth counted that way make an octave stretched to the 4:2 type or a little past it.
One retuning is worth what the pop songs pay for the minor tuning
A guitarist allowed to retune once in an evening plays the pop songs in their own tuning and the minor songs in theirs. What that saves rises with every minor song until the tenth, and then stops: from there on it is exactly what the twelve pop songs would have paid to be played in the minor songs' tuning, and adding minor songs cannot raise it. The C shape's tuning, which a one-tuning guitar spends most of the range in, is never used. And the whole saving belongs to the running order. Put the same ten minor songs in two runs instead of one and a single retuning is worth three-fifths as much; spread them through the evening and it is worth a fifth.
The fourth–fifth check cannot hear the note it checks
A tuner tests a temperament by sounding the fourth below a note and the fifth above it, inside one octave, and comparing their beats. Both beats run to the same partial of the middle note, so moving that note speeds or slows both together and leaves their difference untouched. The check is a test of the octave, and of one particular octave: the 4:2. Measured with each note's own stiffness, the printed table laid fourth first builds exactly that octave on any piano; laid fifth first it overshoots, and the check pulls it back by a third of a cent.
The thirds and the fourths check different octaves
Every interval counted to its printed beat rate on a stiff string is left wide, by an amount set by the squares of the partial numbers that meet in it. Add the links of a chain and the sum lands on an octave type: a fourth and a fifth make the 4:2, a minor third and a major sixth make the 6:3, and three major thirds come just short of the 6:3. So the two most familiar checks in a bearing are exact tests of two different octaves, and on a stiff piano no octave passes both. Each fails on the other's octave by a beat a second at A3.
The minor half's own tuning belongs to one key
A guitarist who retunes once between the pop songs and the minor songs has been choosing among three tunings found for whole evenings. Searched for the minor songs alone, the best tuning is none of them — but only in A, B and D minor, where it gives the tonic and subdominant one shape at the nut and both are in tune. In A it saves six-tenths a song, and the refund a retuning buys stops having a ceiling. In the other nine keys, and in any minor half that mixes keys, the E-minor shape's tuning was already the answer.
A capo is a transposition the tuning cannot see
Tempered frets make a chord shape's error the same wherever it sits, so a song with a capo at the fifth fret is, to the tuning, the song five semitones lower on a shorter neck. That lets every minor key borrow B minor's open-string fingerings, and eight of the twelve take the raised-B tuning's best price with a capo no higher than the seventh fret. A minor half in mixed keys, which gave a retuning nothing, now nearly doubles its refund — but the capo pays the single-tuned evening as well, and a minor half all in A gets less from its retuning than before.
A capo left in place serves one key
Moved for every song, a capo lets nearly every minor key borrow B minor's open-string fingerings. Left at one fret for a whole run of minor songs, as most guitarists leave it, it does something much weaker: it renames the keys. Over a run in every key that is a reshuffle on a shorter neck and can never beat the nut; over the four keys guitarists use most it gains nothing either, because two of them are already the tuning's best. A fixed capo pays only a run in very few keys, spaced the way the tuning's cheapest keys are.
A set ordered by key relation moves the capo most
Grouped by the fret each song wants, a set of twelve minor songs in E, A, D and B gets the whole of what a moving capo saves with three capo changes. A real set is not grouped by fret; it is ordered for the music, and the commonest rule for that order is key relation — neighbouring songs a fifth apart. That order is the worst the capo can face: no two neighbours want the same fret, and three changes recover thirty-five per cent of the saving against fifty-one for a random order. The capo groups keys a tone apart, and a set built on fifths is the order that keeps them furthest from each other.
A set steps by fifths where the capo moves
A set of twelve minor songs in E, A, D and B can be ordered for the capo or for key relation, and the two orders pull apart. Searched over every one of its 41,304 orders, the trade between them is exact and simple: a set can put a fifth between neighbouring songs at each capo change for nothing, because a fifth always crosses frets and a capo change is where crossing is paid for. Beyond that each extra fifth costs about seven points of the capo's saving. The tone steps the earlier essay suspected of carrying the compromise are where the capo stays still.
A split key buys one of everything, and two buy C and E
An organ builder with money for two extra keys could have put them anywhere, and the arithmetic of triads cannot say where. On a meantone keyboard every added key buys exactly one major triad, one minor triad, one major key and one minor key, wherever it goes. So the count is no guide, and the choice was about which keys. The two accidentals most often divided, G♯/A♭ and D♯/E♭, are one on each side of the chain, and they are exactly what completes the minor keys on C and E. What they buy by the roughness sum is seven per cent.